it takes two
by thefireplanet
Summary: and/or Tangled meets Frozen, feat. the musical number: get Eugene out of Arendelle or so help me


**a/n: **cross-posting from tumblr. my two favorite movies together. -sniff- _it's my new dream._

* * *

"This is the story of how I froze to death. But don't worry—it's exactly as horrible as it sounds."

"_Eugene_."

"What?"

"It wasn't _that _bad."

"It was a _little_ bad. And by little I mean a lot. And by a lot I mean a lot. And it's not even _my_ story, which makes it ten times worse—I don't deserve that look you are giving me right now, and I refuse to acknowledge it."

"Truth is, it's a wonderful story—and it starts with the snow."

* * *

"Isn't this wonderful?" Rapunzel exclaims, clapping her hands on the railing of the ship and looking out at the glittering, glistening harbor in awe.

"Yeah, great, so fun," he sighs, trying not to get infected by the enthusiasm bug because, damn it, he did not want to be spending his honeymoon doing _royal things, _he wanted to spend his honeymoon doing _dirty things_ in—in Fiji or someplace—he looks out at the little village nestled in the mountains. "This Andel place is small, isn't it?"

"Arendelle."

"Excuse you, Blondie. Look," he jumps up on the railing next to her, trying to look suave and cool, trying to ignore the rollicking of the ship (and he's been seasick this entire time, too, and there she was, a cucumber, and completely at ease, and it wasn't _fair_), "it's not too late to turn around. We could turn around, right now, and take a little jaunt across the countryside, maybe find a beach, and a hammock—"

"Eugene," Rapunzel sighs, but it's a fond sort of sigh, one he's used to. She straightens, coming to stand between his legs. "What," he mock sighs back at her.

"Just for the coronation, and then we can honeymoon to your heart's content," she smiles, and damn, "'kay? Two days. You think you can make it two days?"

"Smooth sailing?" He rolls his eyes dramatically. "Fine." Then he scratches his nose and uses Blondie's head as an armrest. "What's the deal with this place, anyway? Palace has been closed for, what, thirteen, fourteen years?"

She hums in agreement, peering around his shoulder. Her eyes are taking in the new sights, and sounds—but hey. Once you've seen one harbor, you've seen them all. He shrugs nonchalantly. The ship's pulling past mountains the color of springtime, and he supposes that this place had the sun going for it, if nothing else.

Somewhere warm and sunny.

Now all he needed was a tan.

* * *

"Did you _see_ that?"

"See what?"

"See the—the singing girl, she was _singing_. Is this—is this a thing, with royalty, do you go around singing to everyone, 'cause I didn't sign up for this, when I agreed to marry you—singing and dancing on bridges—_why is no one else staring_?"

* * *

"And what kingdom do _you_ hail from?" The man leers forward, and his hands are doing something weird around his chest—cackling, Eugene thinks. His hands are cackling.

"Um," Rapunzel smiles a little slowly, one end of her mouth tipping upwards, and he can tell she's trying not to laugh. "I'm Rapunzel—"

"Princess Rapunzel," he breaks in, because she forgot that, a lot, and hey, if you got it, flaunt it, right—"of Corona."

"_Corona_," the little man hisses in delight. "Such a large kingdom! Tell me, how much revenue do you make in taxes?"

"Who're you?" Eugene asks. "Exactly?"

"Why, sir," the little man puffs out his little chest, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering. Next to him Rapunzel is coughing violently into her elbow. Smooth, Blondie, real smooth—"I am the Duke of Weselton."

"Weasel Town?"

"_Wesel_ton, _Weselton_!"

"Oh, yeah. That place, over by that—those mountains and stuff." Eugene has no clue. Also, he's distracted, because the priest (he'd disguised himself as a priest, once, that had been fun, with the big robes and the pointy hat) had just brought out the royal scepter and orb. He whistles. Hot damn.

"Perhaps you could put a good word in to your parents," the Duke smiles pointedly, "about opening up trade relations with Weselton?"

"Of course," Rapunzel says, because she's politic, and that's what he hates, about all this. Things were so much simpler if you could just say what was on your mind and screw the consequences. _No, I won't mention you, you're weird_. Now, if he hopped into the ambulatory, he could hang out there until no one was looking—"But I think the ceremony is about to begin?"

"Yes! Yes, silly me, silly me," the Duke chortles, turning around in his pew. Eugene heaves a sigh of relief. Now, if he hopped into the ambulatory—

Blondie elbows him; one of her eyebrows is raised. He hisses, "Ow! What?"

"You're drooling."

"I am _not_," he whispers back, affronted. "Just because I've given up thieving—because I _have_—doesn't mean I can't _admire_."

It's not like he _needs_ it, anymore, it's just so damn fun—

The choir begins. The church quiets. Eugene feels like a fox in a hencoop, looking around at the smug, slight faces. He grabs onto Blondie's hand for something real as the doors open.

* * *

"Presenting Queen Elsa of Arendelle!"

* * *

So he leaves for _three seconds_ to be a good husband and get some drinks and then there's this asshole, he thinks angrily, looking at the guy talking to Blondie. He was tall, immaculately dressed, and standing _too damn close_—

"Uh, yeah, hi," he says, sliding between them. On impulse he hands one of the tall flutes he's holding—white wine, the drink of _not enough damn alcohol for this_—to the guy. "Here you go."

"Oh," the guy says, "thank you."

"Sure."

"Eugene," Blondie says, and he can hear the warning, "this is Prince Hans. Of the Southern Isles."

Was Of the Southern Isles his last name? And more importantly, was it supposed to mean something to him? It didn't. "Oh, yeah, that place—sure is nice this time of year, huh?"

"Warm," Prince _Hans_—what kind of name was that, _Hans, _like hands or something—says politely, with an easy smile and a sip of wine. "Though I imagine Corona is, as well?"

Eugene gives him an unimpressed sort of shrug—so you know the name of my kingdom, so what—and it's not supposed to be a go ahead to continue, but Han(d)s does.

"I didn't imagine Princess Rapunzel would need her guard to accompany her in the palace," he smiles.

Eugene's own smile freezes. His eyebrow twitches. He used to beat up guys like this. Rapunzel laughs awkwardly. "Well, no; Eugene's my husband."

Eat _that_ Han(d)s of the Too-Warm Isles.

"Oh, my." Prince Hans inclines his head. "I'm sorry. I wasn't aware that the Princess of Corona was married."

"Two weeks, now," Eugene replies dryly, and through closed teeth. He's finished his drink, and can't even feel it. Never could, with wine. He contemplates stealing back the one he gave away. Two had to make him feel something, right?

"Well, you certainly are very fortunate. And what dukedom did you say you hail from?"

"The dukedom of hard knocks."

"I'm sorry?"

"I was an orphan," he says sadly, theatrically, putting his free hand to his heart. "It's a sob story, really. I wouldn't want to bother you with it."

Prince Hans is looking at him. Eugene is good at reading tells, and the guy's mouth flashes thin for the briefest of moments. Then his eyes glaze over; he's looking past their shoulders, into the middle of the ballroom. Eugene turns, follows his gaze, and _oh_, he's looking at Princess _Ah_na. _And lo, there she stands_—ok. Well. Go over there, mister prince guy—"It was a pleasure meeting you," Han(d)s says, bowing to Blondie with another practiced smile. "But if you'll excuse me."

"Of course," she bobs back. She'd picked up the whole royal thing really quickly. Too bad Eugene was still working on it. He says, "Bye, Hanz."

The guy blinks once, back stock-straight, and then fades between them, into the crowd of well-groomed dancers. Eugene turns to watch, pursing his lips. Hans catches Princess _Ah_na just before her head becomes good friends with the floor. The unemptied flute of white wine is put on a tray, to be taken away, just like that. What a waste, Eugene laments, of perfectly mediocre alcohol.

"What was that?" Blondie asks him. Her arms are crossed.

"He thought I was your _guard_!"

"Well, you're acting like it."

"Good!"

The look she gives him could freeze water. He sputters for air. At last he settles on, and lamely:

"Never trust a guy with sideburns."

He could think of some very good examples that started with Stabbington and ended with Bros. Blondie blinks at him. Then—

"Were you jealous?" she asks slyly.

"Why—why on earth would I be jealous? Stop talking."

"You _were_ jealous," she smiles coyly, shaking out her skirt. "Don't worry. I'm already stuck with you."

Eugene begins to smile and then stops. "Nuance."

"A few more hours of this," Blondie says, clasping her hands behind her back, "and then it's off to our honeymoon."

Eugene sighs with relief, tackling her in a side-hug that is completely un-princess-like and way un-royal.

* * *

"Congratulations!" Blondie smiles. "Your kingdom is absolutely lovely."

"Why, thank you," Queen Elsa smiles back, but it's a small smile, an almost smile. Eugene stands to one side and notices the tightness across the shoulders, the gloves, the heavy cloak—she wanted to be away, and she wanted to be away bad. He knows the feeling, all trussed up in these royal clothes. Every once in a while he got an itch he couldn't scratch and snuck out of the palace for fun, broke into the bakery for fun, ran across the rooftops for fun—

This queen, she could use some of that. Some _fun_. F—U—

"I would introduce you to Anna, but I can't find her at the moment. And how is Corona?" Queen Elsa asks politely. Blondie reaches to tug on some of her hair, realizes it isn't there, anymore, and settles for clapping her hands in front of her. Eugene notices. He always notices.

"It's doing well, thanks—we would love for you to come and visit sometime."

Queen Elsa blinks. Queen Elsa almost smiles. Queen Elsa says, "Thank you."

There was something off about Queen Elsa.

"And you two recently got married, did you not?"

But she did do her homework. Eugene nods. All trussed up. He could go nab that lovely scepter and globe right now—"Two weeks."

"I imagine you should be on your honeymoon right now," the queen says, wryly.

Eugene sighs. "Yeah, well, I imagine—" Blondie elbows him in the side. "Yes, well," he coughs politely, "duty calls."

"Yes, doesn't it?" Queen Elsa replies resignedly. He meets her eyes. A look of understanding, there. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and wishes he could help. Blondie is saying, "—never seen another kingdom, before, and—"

"Hey, Rapunzel," he says, placing his hand on her elbow. "Why don't we let the new queen enjoy herself for a bit?"

"Hm?" She blinks her big, doe-eyes at him. Catches the sober look on his face (and he isn't _too_ sober). Says, "Yes! How silly of me." She turns back to the queen. "It really was a pleasure meeting you."

Queen Elsa almost smiles. Nods her head. "And you."

"Your majesty," Eugene bows, and when he straightens there are those eyes, again. They follow him out of the ballroom.

* * *

"She's trapped, too, isn't she?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

* * *

The ship isn't _really_ rocking, there in the harbor, but it might as well be; Eugene feels his stomach turn the moment he steps on board, the five or so glasses of white wine threatening to grace the open air again, and he says, "We should've just asked—there are at _least_ two million extra rooms at the palace."

"I don't want to inconvenience her," Blondie sighs. She rubs a hand down her face. "Besides, we're leaving in the morning."

He knows. It's why they left the party early in the first place, lots of sleep and all that. Behind them troop the Corona guard; Eugene was pretty sure that they had been playing strip poker in the stables before they cut their night short. It's ok. He hates them all anyway. Eugene says, "What's up?"

"Hm?"

He raps her forehead. She bats him away, ducking under his arm and jumping nimbly to the deck of the ship. "I'm just thinking."

"Dangerous pastime, Blondie."

"I know." Then: "I wish I could help."

"Sometimes," he says, coming to wrap his arms around her thin shoulders, "we can't. And it sucks."

"Very eloquent."

"I try."

"Your highness?"

Eugene hears it, first. A commotion, travelling down the streets—shouting, yelling. He drops his arms and walks slowly towards the railing. There are storm clouds on the horizon. Blondie is already on the gangway and he grabs the back of her dress without looking. No, stay, don't—

And he blinks, down at the water surrounding their ship, because—"Is that—is that _ice_?"

Blondie starts. Beneath them the entire fjord is freezing, ice traveling in great, cracking waves. The rocking movement of the ship stops and Eugene is trying really hard to keep his cool because _what was happening_ and also _how were they supposed to leave in the morning for Fiji_ and _what the actual hell_—

People are trickling into the harbor, from homes, from bars, looking at the twisted hands of ice reaching towards the open ocean, and the darkening gray sky above. The first few flakes of snow are beginning to fall like tentative whispers. He shouts down, to the nearest man, "What happened?"

"It's the queen—she used _sorcery_!"

The snow's falling faster, harder, now. Blondie's mouth is open in surprise. She's catching the floating white flakes on the tips of her fingers, like she'd never seen snow before, and then, with a wince, he realizes that she probably hadn't, because snow in Corona equated to slush or horribly icy rain—

The dark clouds are concentrated across the harbor; he can just make out a lonely figure racing up into the mountains, heavy cape billowing out behind them. He blinksblinksblinks. He says, "It was summer five minutes ago, right?"

Someone down in the harbor, looking at the landlocked ships, shouts, "We're all _doomed_!"

Which is a little too dramatic, even for him. He runs a hand down his face. He needed to find some intel. He needed to do some snooping. He needed the temperature to stop dropping, because he was pretty sure he was cold-blooded. Blondie rubs her arms.

"Well," he says, with a tear and a sniff, watching his honeymoon disappear behind the growing storm-clouds, "there it goes."

* * *

They had taken over a tavern—the large common room, mostly—called The Prancing Pony, and he knows something's wrong when he's actually missing The Snuggly Duckling, like, a whole damn lot. Blondie sets up great vats of soup. She finds cloaks. He really doesn't know how she does it—probably those big, doe-eyes of hers. Mostly, though, they're trying to keep the fire burning, but it's summer—

Or it had been—

And trying to find enough firewood was like trying to find a shred of dignity in the Corona guards.

It's midday. Midday, and he should be on the open seas, sailing to a sunny beach and island drinks with little umbrellas. He says, "I'll go find wood," walks out into the frigid, biting wind, decides he's more of a summer person, and turns back inside.

Blondie's standing there with a frying pan.

"Woah, woah, woah—_way_ overkill—" He grabs another scarf, wrapping it around his face, and leaves before she can say anything or explain herself. The moment he steps outside his blood slows and he's got frostbite in two fingers on his left hand, and maybe one pec. He's most likely allergic to snow.

He walks all the way into town, to the courtyard just before the bridge to the palace. There's firewood lined up under some of the overhangs there, and folks meandering about, looking lost. He supposes he doesn't look much better, but whatever. He grabs a few logs; then a few more; then he sees Prince Hans coming from the palace. He walks forward, grappling with the wood beneath his arms, and says, without preamble, "What happened?"

Prince Hans squints at him. "And who are you?"

Eugene spits the scarf out of his mouth. "The guard."

"Ah—forgive me. I couldn't recognize you."

"Yeah, sure, whatever—what happened?"

"Queen Elsa has been keeping a secret."

"I gathered," he replies dryly. "You know, by the ice."

Prince Hans blinks, like he doesn't know what to do with sarcasm, and maybe he doesn't—"She froze Arendelle in eternal winter with her magic—"

"Again, also gathered—"

"—and Princess Anna went after her."

"You let her go _alone_?" Eugene asks incredulously, not because he doesn't think the princess can handle herself—all the princesses he knows can—but because Hans had come into the palace with Anna clutching his arm, passing Eugene and Rapunzel in the hall, murmuring something about marriage, and that had been his clue to peel the hell out of there before family drama, but this family drama had gotten, like, a whole kingdom involved—

"She was adamant." Hans says. "She left me in charge."

Was that supposed to impress him? "Oh_kay. _Whelp, I'm going to take this firewood back to the harbor. We've got a little soup kitchen thing down there, nothing too fancy, but hey, come stop on by." He takes two steps. Pauses. Can't help himself, "Also, I'm at least ninety-nine percent sure that she didn't _mean_ to, you know. Freeze everybody."

"The road to hell," is all Hans says.

It's all so very _mysterious_.

* * *

"I'm going to lose my _mind_."

"You're doing a good dead."

"I almost lost a foot today, collecting that firewood. Can you imagine Fiji? Because I, right now, am imagining Fiji."

He's looking out the window. A white horse with a black-striped mane runs past. He does a double-take, blinks, then turns back to Blondie, where she's seated on a kitchen stool, sniffing herbs and spices and making faces. "I mean, can you _imagine_ the possibilities of this?"

* * *

It's official—hell is cold.

Eugene shivers and tries to shake feeling back into his legs. The fire is a pile of embers, and at least twenty people are huddled around it. There are two Corona guards by the door. He says, "Do you remember that time we were going to go on our honeymoon?"

Rapunzel throws a cloak at his head.

* * *

The door opens. Eugene looks up. He has one kid holding his neck in a chokehold, another hanging off his left arm, and a third who had hooked her fingers into his nostrils. He sees Prince Hans and gently extricates himself.

"But what about Flynnigan Ryder?" one kid exclaims.

"Yeah, yeah, be patient," he says, almost-not-quite-fondly. "Two seconds. A flip of the coin. Ask Blondie." He walks towards the prince, but there is something different about this encounter, because in mismatched clothes and on dirty tavern floor, Eugene was Flynn and Flynn was in his element. He crosses his arms. Behind him the quiet, gentle swell of conversation. He says, "Need some soup?"

"Princess Anna is missing."

He says, "And you know this how?"

"Her horse returned, but she didn't. I'm leading a search party."

Outside the wind is beginning to howl, snow swirling in little puffs of white. It's darkening, out there. Slowly, surely. Flynn looks through the tavern window, cocks an eyebrow at the party gathered just outside—two, four, six guards—and says, "I'm allergic to snow."

"You're able-bodied," Hans replies. "You mean to tell me you're too much of a coward?"

Flynn can see Elsa's sad, lonely eyes. He knows those eyes. Maybe she wants to be left alone. Maybe Anna does, too. He says, "No. I'm just not stupid."

Hans bristles.

"Now, I'm also not royalty. Not really," Flynn continues. "But I have this inkling that leaving your subjects without a ruler is _probably_ a bad idea."

"The other dignitaries will—"

"Yeah. Of course. Other people."

"_Eugene_!" one of the kids cries.

Hans steps forward. "I'm doing something important—"

Flynn straightens, thinking of those people gathered behind him, the firewood, the soup, and Hans may be tall, but he isn't _that_ tall. "So am I."

Hans looks at him, hard, for several seconds, then nods brusquely. He twists on his heel, reaching for the door, and Flynn turns. Over his shoulder he says, nonchalantly, "Take two of the Corona guards." Then: "Make sure you get the one with the handle-bar mustache."

* * *

They hear about it through the grapevine, a guard of a guard—_the queen is back, imprisoned, yes, good riddance_—and Blondie is running to the castle, demanding the gates be opened, storming inside, all _where is Hans of the Southern Isles_ and Eugene would be lying if he said he wasn't a teeny-little-bit turned on by the sudden aggression, but he's also worried, thinking about this situation, about one wrong word, about starting a war—Rapunzel bursts into the study of the palace. Eugene takes in the dignitaries, looking well-rested, and then Hans, bursting to his feet in a flash and a, "Did I give you permission to enter?"

And oh. So _that_ was Hans.

"You can't lock her up," Blondie replies, mouth thinning, crossing her arms. "Who gave you that right?" Eugene can tell her fingers are itching for a frying pan.

"Princess Anna, when she left me in charge."

"But you didn't find her," Eugene points out. "And now the queen is back. Queen checks prince, right?"

"The queen is a danger to us all," Hans says, slowly coming around the table. "She's covered Arendelle in eternal snow; do you really think that she is good for the kingdom, at this juncture? Princess Rapunzel, I understand you want to help—"

"No. What I _want_ is for you to release the queen."

"Unfortunately, that isn't going to happen."

Blondie looks back at him and yes, his mind is already whirring—a few lock-picks and slips of his fist and they could get the queen out lickity-split—

"Guards," Hans says, "please escort our guests from Corona back to their…soup kitchen."

Eugene wants to spring but the guards are advancing and what's more important is keeping them the hell away from Blondie—so he raises his hands, hoping she keeps her head, and says, "We don't want any trouble."

"We'll soon be rid of this winter," Hans says, looking at his gloves. "And then you can return home. Maybe a honeymoon, even."

Eugene takes Rapunzel by the elbow and leads her from the room, looking at the unsmiling faces of the guards as he does—a familiar sight.

He should be used to this, by now.

* * *

In the hall they pass the princess. She looks like ice. She looks like death.

She looks frozen.

* * *

"He has no right to do that," Rapunzel is saying. He can tell her foot is still aching, from where she had sent it crashing into the gate as it closed behind them, because she's limping. The streets of the town are deserted; the temperature had dropped further, the flurries tumbling like weeds through the roads. Eugene can't feel his nose.

"People are afraid. They'll do whatever they want."

"We'll get an army, then."

"We can't start a war."

"Then lets go break in—come on, Eugene, it's what you do—"

"Correction," he holds up a hand, buried beneath several layers. "It's what Flynn does. Did. Had been doing."

Blondie blinks at him; takes his hand. It's a grip that says, _Eugene is better, don't you forget_, and he doesn't, not often, not anymore. She says, quietly, "What can we do, then?"

"Wait?"

She sighs, her breath escaping in a storm cloud in front of her face. "It's all so _complicated_. And the princess—"

"There is some serious voodoo going on up in here."

They're nearing the harbor, and their little soup kitchen. Eugene would have to go find more firewood. There's the path, leading out of the hamlet and into the mountains, and he hears, behind them, _clip-clop, clip-clop, _turns—

A man and his reindeer. Now. There was something you didn't see everyday.

The guy looked absolutely horrible—not, like, physically, Eugene supposes, and _no_, he wasn't jealous of the muscles—but his eyes were downcast and his shoulders stooped and Eugene knows it's bad—whatever _it_ is—when the _reindeer_ is looking with concern. So he stops. Blondie stops, too, turning next to him. Her mouth falls open. "What kind of horse is _that_?"

"Reindeer."

"Bless you," she says.

"No, bless _you_."

"Do you need help?" she calls towards the guy. He's the first they'd seen wandering the streets all day. "We have cloaks, and soup—"

The guy starts at the voice. Looks up. Sees them standing there, and what a picture they must paint, bundled in layers of mismatched winter clothing, Eugene practically invisible except for his eyes—the guy shakes his head. "No. No, I'm fine."

"You don't _look_ fine," Eugene points out.

"Yeah, well, I am." The guy frowns. "Just—tired."

"Well, you could be tired with us, if you want," Rapunzel offers, with a vague gesture towards their little soup kitchen.

"Honestly, Blondie, you're too good," Eugene sighs.

The guy looks between them, eyes narrowing, and he says, "She's not blonde." And with that they trudge on, man and reindeer, towards the path leading out of town.

Eugene blinks. "Friendly guy."

* * *

Hell is cold, and it's getting colder.

Blondie insists on helping him get more firewood, which is why when it breaks loose—all hell, that is—they're both there, on the bridge to the palace, having been surveying the city, the ice, the snow, and he'd been thinking _how do I get to Fiji_—

It's a storm, but it comes from nothing. Eugene listens to the wind growing angry around him, picking up stray ice from the frozen fjord in dust motes, swirling it fiercely and bitingly around his face. He reaches for Rapunzel automatically. The wind presses him sideways, towards the lip of the bridge; he braces his back against the gale, one arm on either side of her; but the wind buffets him forward, and it's so _damn_ cold, he did not sign up for this cold, he signed up for two days in summertime and then a long trip south of the border and a hammock and a beach drink with little umbrellas—

"Do you hear that?" Blondie yells at him. He can barely hear himself think, and his arms are going to fall off. He presses closer to her, tugging the hood of her cloak over her head and holding it there.

"Hear what?" he shouts back, and then he does, a faint whisper on the wind—

"_Kristoff_!"

He peers up, over the lip of the bridge and at the harbor. He can make out the tipping, fraying masts of the ships. One cracks the ice, falling sideways with slow, awkward grace, and he prays to whoever is listening that it isn't theirs, please don't be theirs—

"Hey!" he shouts suddenly. "It's that guy with the reindeer!"

"Really?" Rapunzel twists beneath him, scrabbling for a better look. He wants to shove her back below the lip of the bridge, where it's _safe_, but he knows she'll have none of that, so he settles for pressing his chin onto her head, and they watch. He can only see white. The palace, twenty feet to their right, is practically invisible.

And suddenly—

As suddenly as it began—

The storm stops. Billows out, in a cloud of icy white, from a spot somewhere on the water. The air is sharp, crystalline, and he can make out—is that—the _queen_, hunkered down, drawn inward, like her world is collapsing, and standing over her, sword drawn—

"Sideburns!" Eugene hisses, but he wouldn't say _I told you so_, but _I told you so_—

There's the princess. Something's wrong, and he can't tell what, but there she is, and Hans has his sword drawn, and Rapunzel is pressing to her feet now, shouting _no_ but it's drowned out by Anna's cry, by, "_Elsa_!"

(And he's so far out of his comfort zone right now—)

Hans brings his sword down on Anna's hand, but she turns _blue_, like a crystal, head to foot, and the blade shatters into twenty pieces.

The prince is flung backward.

The reindeer and his rider come to a slow, awkward, unsure pause at the edges of things.

The queen cries.

It sounds like the shattering of glass, cracked jagged, raw.

"What's wrong with her?" Eugene asks, slowly.

"She's frozen," Rapunzel breathes. He doesn't question how she knows—she still wakes up in the middle of the night with her healing incantation on her lips, secrets of the sun coming from her head, so no, he doesn't question—

Eugene looks at the scene, cold forgotten, honeymoon forgotten, everything forgotten. He didn't know these girls. Not really. But nobody deserved—this. And—

"We could've stopped it, couldn't we have?" Rapunzel whispers. "We could've—Hans, trying to kill the queen. I just didn't _see _it. Hans. I didn't see. If we had just tried _harder_." She's clenching and unclenching her fists, glancing towards him, because if they had saved the queen then they would've saved Anna, too. But there's something going on down there—

Something strange going on—

"Hey, Blondie," he tugs her back to face the view of the harbor, and this was all a little anticlimactic, wasn't it, but he's smiling, anyway, so who cares—

"_Look_."

* * *

"Well, you can imagine what happened next. The kingdom rejoiced, for the palace gates were open. The party lasted an entire week, and, honestly, I don't remember most of it. But I think the real question here is, did we ever get our honeymoon? And the answer is no.

"No we didn't."

"_Eugene_."

"Alright, we got something better."

"Ice skating!"

"Ice skating."

"And we all lived happily ever after."

"Define: happily. _Ow_! I mean, yes! Yes—we're living happily ever after."

"Yes, we are."


End file.
